


Anemoia

by vellichorrain



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anyways, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I'm Bad At Tagging, Letters, Minor Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, Reincarnation, Sad, Save Me, Stray Kids Minho, This Is Sad, Wow, and get cool, go stream i am you, idk what this is, it's my first fic on ao3, sorry if this is trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 11:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17548493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellichorrain/pseuds/vellichorrain
Summary: In which Han Jisung writes one last letter to Lee Minho before he leaves his lifetime for good.





	Anemoia

**ANEMOIA**

 

Minho-hyung, 

Sometimes when I look at you, I’m reminded of past memories. 

Sometimes when I look at you, I’m reminded of the times where I would run around in the meadows playing with flowers and sneeze due to the pollen. The times where I would get a soccer ball and run through the fields trying to score a goal. But most of all, I’m reminded of my friends, the times we had and the memories we made. The times where we would snap polaroid photos by the beach or the times where we would sing around the roaring bonfires. These were the summer days where people laughed on beaches and made happy memories. These were the times where you were overly excited as your eyes sparkled with excessive amounts of energy. 

Sometimes when I look at you, I’m reminded of the times where I would sit playing with my cars by the fireplace while the room would hold the unbearable stench of alcohol mixed with burning firewood. The times where I would be bloody and bruised in the corner due to the beating of a cane. The times where I would try and patch myself up, or wear masks and caps to school hoping no one would peak at my face. The times where I would dream of happiness, but never be able to feel it. But most of all, I’m reminded of the times I had where people would try and stop me from breaking down. The times where my mother would shout at my father and suffer the same fate. The times where I would try to stop the cuts that ran up and down my arms from bleeding, as blood dripped against the salted cement and unmarked snow. These were the cold wintery days where a strong wind would blow the rain into your eyes, stinging them. These were the days you were feeling down, almost as if there was a constant rain cloud above of you, dampening your mood. 

Sometimes when I look at you, I’m reminded of the times I would get into street fights and beat up every single man on site. The times where I’d return home with bloody bruised knuckles and black eyes. The times where I would spend hours trying to find the assorted creams used to treat my wounds and makeup to cover up everything before I went to work the next day. The times where I would wince in pain as I walked with a limp down the hallways of my apartment building. But most of all, I’m reminded of the scared look upon my wife’s face as I glared at everything around me, drowning myself in strong liquors and multiple bottles of vodka. The times where I would take the same actions my father did and suffer my child and wife. The times where police cars often came by and the times where the courthouse was my second home. These were the wild autumn days where the wind would stir up commotion within the fallen leaves and scream outside of your window. The days where you were fuming with anger, emotions pouring out of you in a string of curse words and a heated pink face. 

Sometimes when I look at you, I’m reminded of the times where I would sit in jail cells, pondering whether I would ever get out or not. The times where I ate mashed potatoes, rubbery steak, peas and salads on a daily. The times where the toilet was at the foot of my bed and I never changed out of the orange prison uniform I was given. The times where I reflected on my life, suffering from major withdrawal symptoms from the lack of alcohol that used to burn my throat on a daily. But most of all, it reminded me of the times where I drowned myself, not with alcohol but with self-pity. The times where my inmates used to play cards in the corner while I lay curled up in a ball on my bed. The times where I regretted all my past actions, from the cuts on my arms to the excessive amount of drinking. These were the snow blizzards in the winter where the poor would worry if they would have a house tomorrow. These were the days you were full of misery and worry, not knowing your next move in this hard road called life. 

Sometimes when I look at you, I’m reminded of the times where I enjoyed my freedom. The times long after I had been released from jail. The times where I could live as a free man. The times where I thrived in being able to eat the food and fruit I wanted. The times where I ate at every restaurant and cafe around, trying all the different foods and dishes. The times where I sat with a coffee and a good book, settling in the corner of the library. But most of all, I’m reminded of the times where I had no worries, except to study hard and get good grades. The times where I was drowning, but in books and happiness, not misery, alcohol or self-pity. The times where I had a steady girlfriend, a good part time job and most of all the times where my skin was unmarked. These were the gentle spring breezes where many university students would thrive in the sunlight, wild young and free. These were the days you were calm type of joyful—not bursting with energy, not jumping around, you were just... Happy. 

Sometimes when I look at you, I’m reminded these memories aren’t real. However the nostalgic feeling tied to these emotions and fabricated memories made me feel as if they had happened. It was the feeling of anemoia. The nostalgic feeling of a time I never knew. 

So in this letter, I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for dragging the deepest emotions out of me. For making me feel and remember memories that I had never experienced before. 

Thank you for letting me see your past lives. 

Yours truly,  
Han Jisung. 

—

Lee Minho looked at the letter in disbelief. Throughout all his eight lives, this was the most broken he had been. He couldn’t believe it. 

He was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't supposed to be emotional writing this, but here I am. I'm gonna post a copy on my Instagram as well considering this is pretty short and I could fit this in 10 slides. 
> 
> This writing is dedicated to my friend Tea Leafwater. Thank you for supporting my writing no matter how bad it is.


End file.
